User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 15
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Fifteen 28 August 1960 “Professor Dumbledore, please meet my son, Malcolm.” Minerva felt her hands itching to clutch at the folds of her robes and stilled them by force of will. She half expected Albus to cry out in shock, but he simply said, “Malcolm, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” “It’s an honour to meet you, sir,” Malcolm replied. “Thank you for allowing me to come to Hogwarts.” “I was happy to do it. I used to chide your mother for keeping you hidden from us all this time. Some of us had begun to suspect you had two heads,” said Albus, smiling at Malcolm beneficently as Minerva felt the trickle of perspiration that had beaded between her breasts. Malcolm’s shy smile widened into a grin. “No, sir. Just the one, I’m afraid.” “And a good one it is, too, if what I hear from Headmistress Charpentier is accurate.” Albus looked over at Minerva with a wink. “Oh, Albus,” she interjected to cover the way her heart was pounding. “Don’t flatter him, or his one head will grow as big as one of Hagrid’s pumpkins.” “I hope you’re settling in well, Malcolm,” Albus said, ignoring his new deputy’s jibe. “Quite well, sir, thank you,” Malcolm replied. “Hogwarts is truly spectacular.” “Indeed, it is lovely. Although I expect you’ll find the climate somewhat different from that of Provence. I’m afraid sunshine can be in rather short supply during the winter,” said Albus. “I’ll look forward to the change, then, sir.” “Good lad,” said Albus. “Now, we do need to get one piece of business out of the way before I let you go off to explore the wonders of Honeydukes Sweet Shop.” He crossed his office to a high bookshelf and removed the Sorting Hat from its perch. “We need to get you properly sorted into a house.” Malcolm looked nervous. “Mum’s told me about that,” he said. “The hat looks into you and decides which house you’re best suited to, is that right?” “Yes and no,” Albus replied. “The Sorting Hat will also take into account your personal preference.” Malcolm hesitated. “So … if I tell it I’d rather not be in Slytherin, it won’t put me there?” “I daresay it will not put you where you don’t want to be, but you should be assured that there is nothing at all wrong with Slytherin House. Many fine witches and wizards—like Professor Slughorn—have come through Slytherin. I believe it was your father’s house as well.” “Yes, sir. And I meant no disrespect. It’s just that … well, I’ve done a bit of reading … and it doesn’t seem it would be a good fit for me,” said Malcolm. “I see. Well, you may be correct, although I advise you not to believe everything you read about Slytherin. Books and articles tend only to report the bad and none of the good of that noble house. In any event, it is just as likely you will be sorted into your mother’s house. The sorting tends to fall along family lines, although there are, of course, many exceptions. Shall we find out?” Albus asked holding the hat aloft. “Yes, sir,” replied Malcolm. Minerva closed her eyes along with Malcolm as Albus lowered the hat onto his head. In the brief silence that followed, she opened them and saw the hat scrunch up its already-wrinkled face before crying, “Gryffindor!” Malcolm opened his eyes, obviously relieved, and grinned at his mother, who smiled back. “Congratulations, my boy!” said Albus, removing the hat and placing it back on its shelf. “Are you pleased?” “Oh, yes, sir,” Malcolm replied. Albus added, “I must warn you, you have a very strict head of house.” He glanced at Minerva. “Yes, I’ve heard as much,” said Malcolm. “I should let you two get on with your afternoon, then,” Albus said. “Minerva, would you mind coming by later? I have one or two questions about the timetables.” “Certainly, Albus,” she replied. “I’ll come by here when we’re back from Hogsmeade, if that’s all right?” “Fine, fine. Enjoy your day,” he replied, extending his hand to Malcolm. “Again, Welcome to Hogwarts, Mr Macnair.” Malcolm took the offered hand and shook it, saying, “Thank you, sir.” Minerva’s belly clenched as their hands made contact, and she had to remind herself to breathe. ~oOo~ As Malcolm browsed the stacks at Tomes and Scrolls, Minerva took surreptitious inventory of her son. Malcolm was tall—easily two or more inches taller than the fifth-year boys in her classes—and thin without being bony. The hair on his head was medium brown and wavy, while his incipient beard had a reddish tint. His eyes were the blue of sea-polished glass, and he moved with a lanky grace that Minerva recognised. His high cheekbones and thin lips were hers, but that was all. There was nothing of Gerald in him. Did he notice? Albus had certainly not reacted as if he suspected anything about Malcolm’s paternity. The fifteen-year-old’s height alone should have been enough to suggest to a careful observer that Gerald Macnair was not involved in his siring. Though it was likely, Minerva thought, that Albus didn’t recall what Gerald had looked like—medium height, golden blonde, with grey-blue eyes and a square jaw—but she wondered if Albus could see how much Malcolm was growing into a man that resembled himself. Of course he doesn’t. He isn’t looking for it. As long as I don’t give anything away, he won’t be looking for it, either, she told herself firmly. Do I want him to look? The thought flashed through her mind like the light of a sudden spell, and she deflected it as sharply as if it were a curse. “Mum?” Malcolm said, loping over to where Minerva was pretending to peruse the shop’s selection of self-correcting quills. “Do you think I could get this? I could use something new to read.” She read the title of the book he was holding out. “You really want A History of Muggle-Wizard Relations in England, Scotland, and Wales?” “Yes. Why not?” he answered a little defensively. “I like to read history, and I got a bit tired of French authors on the topic.” “Then you may have it,” she replied with a smile. “And I think I can get it inscribed for you, if you like.” “Inscribed?” “Yes. I know the author.” “How do you know Bathilda Bagshot?” Malcolm asked. “I did my Transfiguration apprenticeship with her partner.” “Madam Marchbanks.” “Yes” she said. “And I have tea with them every so often. As a matter of fact, next time I go, why don’t you come along and have the book inscribed yourself. I’m sure Bathilda and Griselda would love to see you. They haven’t seen you since you were not quite two years old.” “I’ve met Bathilda Bagshot and Griselda Marchbanks?” he asked, star-struck as if he were an ordinary boy talking about a favourite Quidditch player. “Oh, yes. You came to see me receive my mastery. You mean you don’t remember?” she asked with mock outrage. “Sorry, Mum,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t recall the occasion. So when can I meet Bagshot and Marchbanks?” “That’s ‘Madam Bagshot’ and ‘Madam Marchbanks’, Malcolm,” she corrected. “Yes, sorry. So when can I meet them?” “Well, I’m usually invited to celebrate Bathilda’s birthday with them, so I imagine it will be sometime in late September.” “That’s brilliant, Mum!” “I’m glad you think so. Now, is there anything else you can think of that you need before term starts? Or did we manage to get it all in Diagon Alley?” “No, I think that’s all.” As they walked the path back to the school, Malcolm said, “Professor Dumbledore seems very nice.” “Indeed, he is.” “He isn’t quite what I expected.” “Oh? What did you expect?” “I suppose I just expected him to be more … serious. You know … great hero and scholar and all.” “He is those things, certainly,” Minerva replied. “But they don’t preclude the possession of a sense of humour.” “I guess I’m just used to scholars being very serious and stern,” he said, giving her an impish grin. “If it’s me you mean, I’ll have you know that I have a sense of humour, just like everyone else. However, my standards are very high; I don’t laugh at just any bit of a joke. Anyway, I’m hardly a scholar.” “See, now I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” Malcolm replied. “And you are a scholar. Didn’t you publish an article on the molecular properties of Transfigured metals just a few months ago?” Minerva stopped. “How did you know that?” Malcolm shrugged. “I read it.” “You read my article?” “Of course. It was good, too. What I understood of it, anyway. You should do more research.” “I’m trying,” she said faintly. An hour later, Minerva was sitting in front of Albus’s desk as they revised the autumn timetables to allow the new Herbology professor at least an hour before the winter sunset to ensure the rare tropical plants she had brought with her were tucked in for the long Scottish night. “Thank you, my dear. Pomona will be most grateful,” he said as she closed her notebook. “I was just about to order some tea, would you join me?” “It would be my pleasure, Albus, thank you,” Minerva said. “Oh, I almost forgot! Here …” She withdrew a small tin from her pocket and handed it to him. “Mr Honeyduke asked me to give these to you. He’d like you to try them out; he’s considering bringing them out for Halloween.” Albus took the tin with a smile and opened it. Minerva smirked when he jumped as the enchanted liquorice spiders scuttled out and up his arm, then she smiled indulgently as Albus plucked several up and popped them in his mouth. “Very tasty,” he remarked as he chewed. “Unorthodox texture, of course, but it adds to its charm, in my opinion. I’ll owl Honorius in the morning.” He scooped the rest of the sweets, whose crawling had lumbered to a stop, back into the tin. “So, how did Malcolm enjoy Hogsmeade?” Albus enquired. “He was enchanted, as you would expect,” she answered. “He’s holed up in my quarters with a new book. He’s already been through most of the textbooks we got last week.” “Like mother, like son.” “Evidently. Do you know, he actually read my paper on Transfigured metals? How he got hold of that obscure journal, I will never know,” she said. “I sent it to him.” She was dumbstruck for a moment. “When?” “Two or three months ago,” Albus told her. “He wrote to me, and when I responded, I enclosed a copy of your article. I thought it might interest him to know that his mother is making a name for herself in Transfiguration research.” Minerva’s mouth felt like sandpaper suddenly. “Why … why did he write to you?” Albus peered at her with a queer look on his face. “The good manners you instilled in him, I expect. He wrote to thank me for finding a place for him at Hogwarts.” “Oh.” “Is there something wrong, Minerva?” Albus asked. “No, no. I was just surprised, is all. I didn’t realise you two had corresponded.” “Well, two letters barely counts as a correspondence, but yes. I’m pleased he actually read the article. He seems to have his mother’s aptitude for Transfiguration.” “Yes, I think he does.” “Do you think he’ll be happy here? It must be quite a change from everything he’s accustomed to,” Albus said. “I hope he will be, but I suppose it remains to be seen. He’s certainly chuffed at being here right now. I do thank you for allowing him to come.” “It is my pleasure, Minerva. Are you pleased he’s here?” “Yes. I have missed him.” Albus said, “There’s something about him … I can’t quite put my finger on it … but there’s something familiar about him. As if I’ve met him before. Ah, well … I suppose he simply reminds me of you as a girl.” “Yes, that must be it.” After a moment, Albus asked, “Minerva, are you all right?” She felt the heat rise in her cheeks as she said, “Yes, fine. Why?” “You just haven’t seemed yourself the past few days. You seem … preoccupied.” “Do I? It must be the excitement of having Malcolm here. I’m sure I’ll settle in a few days.” “I’m sure.” Albus put his hand across the table to rest it on hers. “Try not to worry about him, Minerva. He’s a fine young man, and I’m sure he’ll acclimate just fine.” “I’m sure,” she repeated. “Thank you, Albus.” “And I do believe it will be easier for him to avoid the attention that would come from being your son, as you no longer share a surname,” said Albus. “Not that it will be a secret for long, of course, but it’s just as well not to remind the other students of it unnecessarily.” “No. Being a Macnair is likely to be hard enough,” she said. “The family’s sordid past was dragged through the papers often enough after Kenneth was sent to Azkaban.” “Indeed,” Albus replied. “I believe you were wise to assume your maiden name once you began teaching. That sort of thing can be a distraction to the students, as I’m sure you realise.” “Yes.” When she rose to go, he said, “Do bring Malcolm to dinner in the Great Hall. It would be a good chance for him to meet the other staff—most of them have arrived by now. He’ll relax more the first day if he’s already met his teachers.” “That’s an excellent idea, Albus. I’ll do that.” “I’ll look forward to seeing both of you then.” ← Back to Chapter 14 On to Chapter 16→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A